


When the smoke had cleared and the dust was still

by Kiraly, Minutia_R



Category: Stand Still Stay Silent
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, F/M, Fluff, Mail Order Brides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:44:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minutia_R/pseuds/Minutia_R
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a train platform somewhere in the American West in the late 1880s, Tuuri and Reynir meet for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the smoke had cleared and the dust was still

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a series of Tumblr posts, and eventually we decided to put them together as one work on AO3.  
> Original idea and Reynir's perspective by Minutia_R. Tuuri's perspective and illustrations by Kiraly.
> 
> (Tumblr posts can be found [here](http://minutia-r.tumblr.com/post/148298520950/so-i-was-looking-up-the-lyrics-to-mark-knopflers), [here](http://worldsentwined.tumblr.com/post/148954722769/so-a-little-while-ago-minutia-r-wrote-an-adorable), and [here](http://worldsentwined.tumblr.com/post/149080325594/more-old-west-au-reynir-and-tuuri-because-i-am).)

_We only knew each other by letter_  
_I went to meet her off the train_  
_When the smoke had cleared and the dust was still_  
_She was standing there and speaking my name_  
_I guarantee she looked like an angel_  
_I couldn’t think of what I should say_  
_But when Adam saw Eve in the garden_  
_I believe he felt the selfsame way_.

Mark Knopfler, _Prairie Wedding_

Reynir tore his eyes away from the empty horizon and checked the station clock again. The train should have been here an hour ago, but the 4:20 from Grand Rapids was always late, and he couldn’t make it arrive any sooner by wishing.  He turned his attention to the bundle of letters he was holding instead, and realized that he’d been crumpling them in his hands as he paced up and down the platform.

Frantically, he tried to smooth out the wrinkles, but this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and the letters had hardly been legible in the first place.  Not that Tuuri’s penmanship was bad!  In fact, she wrote the neatest hand that Reynir had ever seen; it was just that it was tiny, and filled up every corner of the sheets, forwards and up and down and slantwise across the margins, as if the paper was too small to contain all the thoughts she had.  Or at least her budget for postage was.  Reynir had never been much for reading in the first place, so it had taken him nearly a week after he got the letter for him to figure out that she’d accepted his proposal of marriage.

By now, though, he’d memorized every word she’d written to him.  So it didn’t matter if he ruined the letters so much, did it?  Especially since the person who wrote them was going to be here any minute now.

He rifled through the stack of letters until he found the photograph she’d sent.  That was also well-thumbed and faded and had never been terribly clear.  Just a vague impression of a round face with pale eyes and a narrow-brimmed bonnet with a ponytail spilling out the back of it.  He wondered if her eyes were blue, or maybe gray, but he’d stopped short of asking.  It seemed awfully forward, and he didn’t want to make it seem like he was putting conditions on his courtship–he knew he didn’t have much to offer a girl from back East, not compared to the other men whose advertisements he’s seen in the marriage columns–even the farm belonged to his parents and not him–

He lifted his eyes again, and finally he could see smoke on the horizon.  She was almost here!  Assuming she was really on the train.

“Tuuri,” said Reynir under his breath.  He hoped he was saying it right.  Her surname was even more of a mouthful, but at least that shouldn’t be a problem for long.

 _Or else she’s going to take one look at me and get right back on the train to_ –Reynir checked the postmark again– _Fitchburg, Massachusetts._

Either way, how to pronounce “Hotakainen” was the last thing he had to be worrying about.

The train pulled up to the platform and screeched to a stop, and Reynir held his breath, partly so he wouldn’t start coughing from all the smoke but mostly from excitement.  He stared intently as the smoke cleared.  Then he looked further down.

“Mr. Árnason?”

 _I didn’t know she would be so small!  Is that really all she brought with her?  I still can’t tell if her eyes are blue or gray.  What happened to the ponytail?_  Reynir couldn’t say all of that at once.  Some of it he was pretty sure he really shouldn’t say.  But the main thought in his head was:  _Oh help, she’s smiling at me …_

And he found himself unable to say anything at all.

 

   

 

Tuuri checked her timepiece again and sighed. The train was terribly late. She knew, of course, that train timetables were subject to change, especially this far away from civilization. But that didn’t stop her from worrying, or from fidgeting with the bundle of letters in her hands. She’d tied them up with a blue ribbon, half to keep herself from reading them yet again, and half to bring her luck. She feared she would need a great deal of the latter.  _Especially if this train doesn’t hurry up! I hope he hasn’t been waiting too long. I hope…he really is waiting._

Everyone said she was mad to be doing this. Or everyone who mattered, anyway, which for Tuuri meant her brother Onni and her cousin Lalli. But Lalli thought everything Tuuri did was strange, and Onni objected every time she made the tiniest bid for freedom. She loved them, and hoped they’d find it in their hearts to forgive her, but they could not dissuade her from her path. Given the choice between staying in Fitchburg for the rest of her life and going west as a mail-order bride—well, clearly she’d made her decision.

Her hands went unbidden to the ribbon binding Reynir’s letters. They were the reason she’d undertaken this journey in the first place. It had started out as a matter of curiosity: she’d browsed the advertisements from lonely men far away, and in the midst of long-winded descriptions of property and ‘wifely duties’ she’d found him.  _Hard worker_ , he’d written,  _and brought up right. I can’t offer much, but I will be good to you._ She’d written him on a whim, doubtful she’d even get a response. When she did—a full page of careful printing, clearly written by a hand unused to the activity—what she’d read had only strengthened her interest. So she wrote back, and he replied, and before she knew it she found herself staring at the words  _if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife?_ She’d agreed without hesitation; her pen practically tripped over itself in her haste to get the words down. It was only after the letter was posted that she started to have doubts.

 _What if he isn’t who he says he is? Or what if he’s genuine, but we don’t get along?_  Tuuri had heard the stories, of course, about women who went off at the promise of marriage and found something else. She wasn’t given to dwelling on such things, and in any case this Reynir Árnason did not seem like the invention of a charlatan. He was charming, in a rough-around-the-edges kind of way, but the frankness with which he disclosed his humble status—a farmer, and not even landed in his own right—made her inclined to believe him. Surely a ne’er-do-well would make himself seem a better prospect.

Still, the long train journey had given Tuuri ample time to think, and with those thoughts came worries. So she gave in and read the letters one more time, lingering over the last letter and its accompanying photograph. _I have enclosed a train ticket in the hope that you will accept me,_ he wrote _, and should you agree, you will find me waiting on the platform._

When the train reached its destination at long last, she did exactly that. “Mr. Árnason?” She looked up into his face—a long way to look, for he was taller than she’d imagined—and met wide green eyes staring back.  _He looks as nervous as I am,_  she thought, and he confirmed her impression a moment later when his mouth opened but no sound came out. While he searched for words, she looked him up and down. Good clothes, well-worn but perfectly acceptable for a day in town. Blazing red hair, which the photograph hadn’t shown, and freckles all over his face. From what she could see of his smile, he had all his own teeth.

“Mr. Árnason?” she prompted again. This time the words loosened his tongue.

“Ah—Reynir, please. It seems a bit…silly…to be so formal at this juncture. Don’t you think?”

She smiled again, hoping to put him more at ease. “Of course. Call me Tuuri, then.”

He heaved a sigh and relaxed a fraction. “Thank you. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Tuuri.” He reached for her bag with one hand and offered her his other arm. “Shall we go? It’s a bit of a journey back to the homestead, and if we’re to visit the parson first…” He trailed off, eyes etched with concern. “If you’re sure you still want to?”

If she hadn’t been before, that question sealed it. “I’m sure,” she said, and slipped her arm into his. She didn’t comment on the way his hand shook when he helped her into the wagon, just as he didn’t mention her cropped hair or lack of worldly possessions. He didn’t say much, but every time she caught him looking at her, he blushed and gave her a sheepish grin.  _He might not come with a fine house or an impressive acreage,_  Tuuri thought,  _but all the same, I think I got quite the bargain._

 

_ _

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Railway Robbery](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095344) by [Kiraly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiraly/pseuds/Kiraly)




End file.
